


Truth & Consequence

by Nikkette (MissJewelry373)



Category: The Patriot (2000)
Genre: Adult!Margaret, F/M, I Tried, I don’t think it matters, Post-War, Slow Burn, Tavington is super snarky, kind of, older!Margaret, whichever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26056729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJewelry373/pseuds/Nikkette
Summary: With the war over and nothing else to drive him, Colonel Tavington must find another way to quell the hatred still left in his veins. Shamed by his defeat at Cowpens and the fall of the British, he is forced to stay in America, where he finds that his only hope of redemption lies in a lone woman who just so happens to be the eldest daughter of his sworn enemy...but he doesn't know that.Tavington/older!Margaret Martin.Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.
Relationships: William Tavington/Margaret Martin
Comments: 31
Kudos: 25





	1. A Crossing of Paths

**Author's Note:**

> Been thinking of doing something like this for this movie for a while, but only just now got the encouragement/inspiration to actually do it. Hopefully it satisfies some people, but I’m always gonna be looking to improve its quality cuz historical settings intimidate me, haha XD

Lukewarm liquid seared down William Tavington's throat, the burning sensation having left him long ago.

He slammed his glass onto the table for what must have been the hundredth time, and the bartender poured him another. He'd been here so damned long he hadn't even had to call for another drink. His mind swam. His gaze faltered. His posture was just barely respectable. But what did it matter? His reputation was already tarnished, ripped to pieces and shredded along with his dignity.

 _Liberty!_ The newspapers had declared.

 _Yorktown Is Won!_ The headlines had shouted.

_The World Turned Upside Down!_

Bloody ridiculous. The only one whose world had been turned upside down was his, and not in the least any of these petty colonials'. Good God, how had he gotten here? He had been one of America's most feared men, second only to General Cornwallis. He'd been leader of the green dragoons, for God's sake. And now, to be reduced to... _this_ ; wasting his time at taverns and drinking until he could hardly stand, penniless and withering away to nothing. Shameful.

After the war had officially come to an end, William Tavington expected nothing less than to return home and forget the events prior to the defeat of his countrymen had ever occurred. To his shock, however, not only was he not permitted to board the ship home, but the order had come directly from His Majesty Himself. Apparently He had received word that Tavington and his band of dragoons had been using tactics that were...less than gentlemanly, and upon hearing of his apparent failure and brutality, forbade him from making the return trip to Britain.

He suspected General Cornwallis to be the messenger bird flittering around the King's ear, but he would never know; after the Battle of Cowpens, Tavington had broken off from the General, his band of dragoons scattered. He had found Cornwallis' eventual surrender at Yorktown, though reluctant, to be laughable. The man prided himself in strategy yet insisted on sending Tavington to do his dirty work, and still it was _he_ who had been branded a murderous, brutal traitor to his country's standards, and the fat old oaf who got to return home to his wife and children and riches and comforts. Not him. Never him.

The only satisfaction he had was knowing that the same had been done to his other dragoons, though he would never know what became of them, as they had all disbanded and scattered once it became clear they were not returning home. A portion of them had been hanged, or so he'd heard.

He hadn't known what to do with himself those first few months. His fortune was inaccessible from America, and his entire country shunned him as though he were the Devil. Perhaps he was, but his victories far outweighed his defeats. He was certain that, had Cornwallis followed suit in his tactics on the battlefield, things would have turned out much differently. But again, he would never know.

He fled the Carolinas and traveled through Virginia, eventually venturing into Ohio when his curiosity got the better of him. He couldn't help but see the land that might have been his, should have been his. He had been expecting beautifully untamed lands, touched by only savages, but what he had found was...less than spectacular. Ohio was very flat, with nothing but gentle rolling hills and plains for miles. He resided there for several years, having spent the last of his military earnings on the trip, and procured work at a lumber mill under a name that was not his own in order to earn enough to return to South Carolina where he was more familiar. He hated it, having to relegate himself to such a lesser form of living, but he would do what must be done. And that part of him would never change.

It had been seven years now, since he had become a lesser man, degraded to a lower version of himself, and at forty-four years of age, his only consolation was the simple knowledge that his life was at least halfway over. The initial fear and paranoia he felt at returning to South Carolina - to the state he had caused the most grief - faded after a couple of years. Either the people he had tormented were dead, or had moved to other, less tainted areas of the country. Old faces that posed a potential threat to his way of living (if it could even be called such a thing at this point) had long ago faded to make way for new, oblivious strangers. Though there was still one face he feared to look upon again. One that haunted his dreams and floated on the surface of his mind at every waking hour, and one whom he certainly could never forget.

Tavington swished around the ale in his glass before tipping it down his throat, nearly falling from his chair in the process.

He slammed the glass down onto the counter once more and glared drunkenly at the tender.

"Another." He sneered.

The man narrowed his eyes at the ex colonel, drying another patron's glass with a rag. "I think not, sir. That will be another shilling at least."

The room became very tense as they exchanged stern glances with one another, Tavington all but challenging him to do something about it. Had he still retained his status with the green dragoons, he had no doubt this man would be quaking in his boots. How dare he deprive him of the one thing he had left in this life to enjoy. 

Angrily, Tavington reached across the counter, vainly attempting to swing at the man on the other side.

"Wha- how dare you! Out with you! Out!"

He ignored his protests, fighting even when two other men grabbed him and forcibly removed him from his seat. They led him to the doors and threw him out, and he stumbled in the mud as he whirled around to face his offenders.

"And _do_ not come back!" The tender shouted, having the nerve to dust his hands of the filth he hadn't even needed to touch.

The two men who had tossed him into the streets nodded their approval of the man's words, and all three turned back inside.

Brimming with hatred, Tavington spit at their retreating backs, but no clever words or bitter remarks came to him. He turned and turned again, swaying on his feet like a graceless dancer before his surroundings began to vigorously spin around him.

He was vaguely aware of a figure coming towards him when he fell to the ground in a muddy heap, and his world went black.

* * *

Margaret knelt down to the man passed out at her feet, gently rocking him to see if he would wake.

She checked him for injury, looking over his person and finding him to be in well enough shape, aside from his drunken state.

"Shall we help him, Miss O'Neil?" Her servant and good friend, Kitch, asked.

She reached down and tucked a muddy string of hair out of his face. She tilted her head.

"Yes, I think so."

Kitch rolled the man over and tossed him over his shoulder, setting him down in the wagon full of goods they had purchased earlier in the day.


	2. Just A Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

William awoke to brightness, his head aching terribly.

He brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the blinding light, but the movement only proved to distress his stomach, and within seconds he was lurching over the side of the bed he laid on.

He vomited until his stomach had nothing left, and even then, he dry-heaved. When he was finally confident his body would not betray him, he laid back down on the bed, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. It wasn't until he looked up at the ceiling that he began to question where he was. He did not recognize the crown moldings, nor did the sheets or rugs look familiar. He tried to remember what had happened before he last closed his eyes, but he was only able to recall flashes; an empty glass, a man, mud.

He couldn't recall anything past that, and his strange surroundings began to put him on edge.

A slave entered the room with a tray of food, and Tavington immediately went on guard. He leapt to the far end of the bed and stared at him with wide eyes, and the slave in turn nearly dropped the tray he was holding. 

"Wait, sir, wait!" The stranger pleaded, cradling the tray in one hand and beseeching him with the other. His eyes drifted down to the foul-smelling puddle at the foot of the bed, and Tavington narrowed his eyes at him.

"Where the bloody hell am I?" He ground out, not for one moment willing to take orders from a slave.

He tossed the sheets and swept his legs over the side of the bed, attempting to stand. He swayed a bit, the blood having rushed to his head, but forced himself upright. He marched toward the door and the servant held out a hand to stop him.

"We- we found you! Please, lie back down and we will explain-"

He pushed the servant away, heading down the hall and down the stairs in search of an exit. He eyed the paintings on the walls as he passed, searching for some semblance of familiarity. He reached the end of the staircase and hastily turned, slamming right into another slave.

"Why, you insolent-"

"Oh! I'm so sorry!"

Tavington blinked, his eyes deceiving him. This was not a slave, but a young woman, pale and slim. She stared at him wide-eyed, lips falling open in surprise.

"I'm so sorry, sir! Forgive me, I did not mean to cause you fright."

She was beautiful, and very fair. Long blonde hair, pleasing figure...and her eyes; they were so blue. So familiar...

"Kitch and I found you," she went on to say, gesturing behind him. He turned, finding the slave he had pushed aside just moments before. "You were lying drunk in the mud. We took you in before the rain began to set in."

He stood there, thinking. Processing what she was telling him. His gaze settled on the carvings in the trim by his feet, for he did not wish to look into her eyes.

"You have been unconscious for nearly a day now. You can be on your way as soon as you wish. I will not hold you. But please...dine with me. Have supper. I would enjoy the company."

Tavington considered her offer. Under normal circumstances, he would have gathered his things and been on his way as soon as possible, perhaps even thrown out a curse or two. Anything but dine with a colonial. But being of his current predicament, starving with no steady income and no current housing of his own, he thought it best to humor the girl. After all, this may work to his advantage; perhaps she was a rich heiress in want of a husband.

Swallowing, he looked to the woman, forcing himself to be civil. "...Thank you. I don't know what came over me. I appreciate your hospitality, missus...?"

She smiled gently, holding out her hand for him to take. "Miss. My name is Margaret. Margaret O'Neil. And might I ask your name, sir?"

Margaret. Her name suited her.

He took her hand and kissed it politely, silently hoping it was not filth-ridden as most Colonials' seemed to be. "William Ta-" he caught himself, unsure as to why he suddenly wished to use the name he had forsaken nearly a decade ago. "Tarleton. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

She curtsied. "The pleasure is mine, mister Tarleton."

He nodded and released her hand, a strand of black hair breaking from its place and flopping unceremoniously into his eyes. She reached up and tucked the strand behind his ear, her finger never touching his skin but somehow still causing him to go rigid. He could not recall the last time a woman had touched him.

She couldn't have been an heiress, he surmised; her clothes were far too simple and her mannerisms far too casual (dare he say improper), the house far too plain. But there still might be hope.

He coughed, clearing his throat. "Ahem, yes, well...I think I shall go lie down. I feel a slight fever coming over me."

"Very well." She said, nodding. "Kitch, please show this gentleman back to his room."

Kitch nodded, eyeing Tavington warily before turning to lead the way back to his room. He did not immediately follow, however, still occupied by the sight of miss Margaret's retreating figure.

* * *

Supper time came within a few hours, and Tavington found himself in want of more appropriate clothing.

Still clad in his trousers and cotton shirt from the day prior, he wished he had been within means to provide himself with a more colorful arraignment of wardrobes. 'Kitch', as he was called, arrived with a fresh change of clothes just before supper, but they were of much the same grade as his current outfit. Still, they were clean, and it was only after he had changed that he realized how badly he stank of ale and numerous other odors. He shivered to think what Margaret must have thought when she came upon him.

Once dressed, he was led into the dining room. It was decently sized, with lovely but not ornate furnishings and long, draping curtains. No, certainly not an heiress, he decided, but surely well off enough that she would not want for necessities. The table was candlelit with a various array of food set, the aroma of which caused his mouth to water. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a decent meal.

"How kind of you to join us, mister Tarleton," Margaret greeted once he had entered the room. She sat at the head of the table. "I was beginning to fall under the impression that you would find sleep more desirable to my company."

Tavington gracefully seated himself on the opposite end of the table, quick to correct her. "On the contrary, Miss O'Neil. I rather enjoy a good meal with a lovely lady such as yourself." He smiled but it came across as awkward rather than charming, and he desperately hoped she would not think him a charlatan.

"You flatter me," she said, though something in her eyes told him she did not quite believe it.

"So, mister Tarleton," she began, changing the subject. "What brings you to America?" At his shocked expression, she added, "An accent as British as yours can only mean you have migrated from king and country."

He settled down, confused as to why he thought her to see through his facade so readily. He cleared his throat. "I...arrived here some odd years ago. Though it was hardly willing."

Her eyes sparked, an air of familiarity about her. "Oh. During the war, then?"

"Yes. Had I known just how much trouble it would have caused me, I would not have come."

He smiled bitterly, and Margaret scoffed, the action surprising him. "Few of us ever volunteer for such hardships. Please; eat."

She gestured to the hot food and Tavington readily grabbed utensils as the slaves served them helpings of meat, bread and greens. The fork and knife felt awkward in his hands, and in that moment he felt as lowly as a savage. Had it truly been so long since he'd had a proper meal that he'd lost all etiquette? Trying his best to act accordingly, he used his fork to hold his steak in place while he began cutting it with the knife, hating how foreign it felt to do so.

"You will have to tell me what you think of the food," Margaret went on to say, cutting her own slice of steak. "I have a new cook and this is her first meal."

Already discouraged, Tavington took the first bite, finding this bit of information interesting regardless. Only one cook, yet not so destitute that she had to prepare the meal herself. He was beginning to figure her level of societal class.

"Quite delicious," He allowed, though he was sure that almost anything would have tasted just as well to him in his current state. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he probed with his first question. "Forgive me if I am...too straightforward, but if you are not married, should I assume you to be an heiress?" 

He knew very well she couldn't be, but it was still more tactful that asking how she could afford her current lifestyle. The pleasant laugh that emitted from her as a result informed him he had asked in just the right way.

"Oh, no no...I am not an heiress. I don't think I could be if I tried. I am actually a nurse. Or at least I was. Though I do receive compensation from my late husband and his fortune."

He had not been expecting such an answer. It would, however, easily account for her comfortable living.

Tavington tilted his head. "My condolences. I am sorry for your loss."

She nodded. "Thank you."

He narrowed his eyes at her unsuspecting features; was there sorrow in her eyes? Regret? Pain? He could not tell. He wondered at just how long they had been wed to one another before his apparent death, but that would be a question for another time. It may have been years since he'd engaged in proper conversation with a lady, but he still knew how to tell when he was pushing his limits with the breaching of certain subjects. He knew this, and yet his mouth still wished to move in ways he did not.

"Still...how fortunate of a man he must have been to have a beauty such as you by his side."

She gave him a sad smile in response, and he wished he had said nothing.

"So, tell me, miss O'Neil...do you still practice?"

She did not hesitate to answer, knowing automatically that he spoke of her nursing skills.

"No, I am sorry to say I don't. With the exception of unfortunate gentlemen such as yourself, of course."

His fingers circled the rim of his glass, a habit he had developed during his time in the taverns and bars over the years, and he took it upon himself to ask the question that had been floating in his mind since first laying eyes upon the fair woman in front of him. "...Pray tell, what is your age?"

She took another bite of her food, swallowed, and looked down. "I will be on my twenty-fifth year in June."

He couldn't help but raise his brows in surprise; she looked younger than that, but certainly more mature. Under normal circumstances, he would have found it odd that she be twenty-five years of age with no suitors, but taking into account the explanation of her riches, he did not pry. He knew better than to think that a good, soft-hearted colonial would be out galavanting for husbands after the loss of one already. Yet still, he could not gauge as to the strengths of her affections toward her late spouse.

"Well...might I say your maturity far outweighs your age."

"Thank you."

They continued to eat in amicable silence, conversing only when Margaret initiated it. They spoke of the weather and life in America, namely South Carolina. She had admitted her desire to travel, possibly to Virginia or Ohio or beyond, out of curiosity for what lay past the safe borders she had grown accustomed to. He informed her that Ohio was nothing to write home about, but refused to give many details when she questioned him about it, simply saying the weather was too unpredictable and the land was rather flat.

Dinner ended sooner than he'd expected, and the servants came to take their plates away.

"Thank you for dining with me, mister Tarleton," Margaret smiled, standing up from her seat. "It was a pleasure."

"It is I who should thank you, miss O'Neil," he replied easily. "If you had not found me and took me in, I'm sure I would have still been lying in the mud outside the nearest tavern."

"I wouldn't be so certain. God smiles on those at their lowest points. Or so I like to believe."

He nodded, unable to respond. _God_. God spit in the face of every one of his dragoons, most of all him. Each and every time he had assumed himself to be at his lowest point, it only went lower. Further and further down...always down.

"Well, I think I shall retire. Do you need Kitch to show you back to your room?" She asked.

He shook his head. "No. No, I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you."

"Good night, mister Tarleton."

"Good night, Miss O'Neil."

They parted ways as she disappeared down one hall and he, the other. He returned to his room and prepared himself for bed, pleased to find his clothes washed and his nose free of the stench of his own vomit. He lied down and attempted to sleep, but not without much difficulty, for an unknown feeling drifted to the forefront of his mind.

 _Yes_ , he admitted. _She was beautiful._

_But she was just a woman._


	3. Divine Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

Tavington awoke the next morning, but not to sunshine.

It was dark and gloomy outside his window; cold. He stared for a few moments, unhappy. Had he known it would rain, he would have left the night before.

"Ah. I see you are awake."

He turned his head sharply to the left, finding Margaret smiling down at him as she came into the room. She was practically beaming, and he almost dared say he did not need the sun. Instinctively, he shrank away - after all, it was hardly proper for a woman to see a strange man in a state of undress - but relaxed upon remembering that she was a nurse, and therefore must have seen plenty of men in their undergarments.

"Kitch tells me a storm is coming. You are more than welcome to stay should you decide not to brave it."

She moved to the window to gaze outside, and all he could bring himself to do was stare. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a coronet, a pretty halo of yellow, and he again wondered how such a woman could have no suitors, widowed or not. And suddenly, he was very angry with himself; what was the matter with him? Accepting aid from a... _colonial_. And a widow, no less. Permitted, she was quite handsome, but that was hardly enough cause for his standards to dwindle and his senses to betray him.

 _Fool_ , his mind chastised. _What standards have you left? You were drunken and destitute before this woman found you._

He considered this, and knew his conscience to be correct; for if he were truly above her and her situation, they never would have met. He would be back in Great Britain, dining with His Majesty and celebrating his victories, his riches. He should thank her properly, offer to repay her with work or some other means.

He _should_.

However, pride was a funny thing; it could make one ignore common sense and reason for the mere purpose of outward appearance, and more often than not, it did more harm than good. But he did not belong here, he never had, and therefore told himself that this reason alone set him apart from not only miss Margaret, but all the rest as well.

Breaking free from his train of thought, Tavington opened his mouth to reply.

"Thank you, miss O'Neil. I truly appreciate your hospitality. But I am afraid I must be on my way. I can not burden you any longer."

She turned at this, a quizzical look adorning her features. "Burden? What leads you to believe you burden me?"

He could not give a reply, for he had none. He had lost his persuasiveness, it seemed, along with his tactfulness, over the years since he had been stripped of his title.

"Mister Tarleton, you are more than welcome to stay." She came to sit at the edge of his bed, a respectable distance between them. "I may not be the richest woman in South Carolina, but I promise I am very capable of keeping a guest."

She laughed a little bit, and once more, he again became angry with himself for enjoying her company even the slightest. He attempted to reason with himself. She would not be so ready to offer him shelter had she known of his true identity, of that he was certain. No. He could not stay.

"I am afraid not, Miss. I could not bring it upon myself to trouble you any further. I must be on my way."

His firm tone communicated what he wished it to, and her smiled slowly faded. She looked at him with sad eyes, still so blue even in the dreary gray of their surroundings, and odd as it was, it nearly caused him to falter. So inviting, was she. So hospitable and kind. Why must God taunt him with such a seemingly perfect creature in the most wrong of forms?

"Very well." She relinquished. "At least have breakfast. Wait until the storm is passed. I do not wish to be parted from your company just yet."

He considered her offer for the slightest of moments, and even he could not deny the appeal of a good meal. "Very well."

"I will allow you to get dressed. Breakfast is nearly ready."

She patted his leg above the sheets and exited, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His frustration mounted as he readied himself for the day; had it truly been so long since he'd had a woman that he was willing to fall over himself at the first one to give him time of day?

"Ridiculous," he muttered, pulling one sleeve of his shirt through and then the other.

This was a decent home operated by a decent enough woman (even if she was a colonial), and he had no business here. He would eat, thank her again for her hospitality, and leave, never to return again.

* * *

He made his way downstairs to the dining room and again sat himself opposite Margaret, who had been chatting with one of the slaves before he had entered.

Was she truly so good-natured that she felt the need to converse with them? He wondered as he sat down.

"I do hope you enjoy eggs and biscuits," Margaret smiled as their food was set.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Tell me, mister Tarleton; are you a laborer?" she asked as she bit into her bagel, savoring its taste before swallowing.

Puzzled at her question, Tavington furrowed his brow as he sliced his eggs. "I'm afraid that depends on your definition of labor, miss O'Neil."

"Well, judging by your hands, I would assume you have known more work than keeping books or counting shillings." she remarked.

She was so... _intuitive_. So gentle. Far too easy to converse with. And for a man like him, who had done all he could to erase his past from the knowledge of those around him, she was dangerous, and posed a threat most high.

"Well, in that sense, then yes, I _was_ a laborer."

"Was?" She echoed quizzically.

"Time caught up with me," he replied carefully. "Time. And war."

"I see." She nodded, concealing her thoughts from him.

They continued on with their morning meal, pleasant enough, though Tavington couldn't help but feel that he had already revealed too much. He could only hope that she was not truly as intelligent as she seemed and that she was not able to piece the small bits he had given her together into anything substantial.

Once their dining was finished, their dishes were taken away and they rose from their seats. He nodded and she curtsied, as was custom.

"If it is well with you, miss O'Neil, I shall be departing."

The look of disappointment in her eyes was there, but well hidden. "Very well. Thank you for dining with me a final time."

He nodded once more, keeping his gaze downward. "You're most welcome."

He retreated to his room and she, to an unknown part of the house. He readied himself for the journey ahead. Or rather, the trial ahead - after all, he had no certain place to go - but couldn't help feeling as though he were making a grievous mistake, missing some uncertain opportunity. He exited the room and made his way to the entryway, Margaret and Kitch there to meet him.

"Thank you, again, for your kindness."

The words felt so foreign to him, so alien; he nearly stuttered while trying to get them out.

"It is no trouble," she waved a hand dismissively. "After all, one must help their neighbour if they are to help themselves, yes?"

He nodded his agreeance. "I suppose so...well, I best be on my way."

He bowed and turned toward the door, his worn boots thumping loudly against the wood floors. He had just begun to cross the threshold when Margaret's voice stopped him.

"Mister Tarleton, wait." He froze, half turning to look at her. "Do you require work? I need additional help on my plantation. I would pay you."

His eyes widened, shocked at her offer. It was no lie that he was in need of income, and this young lady was willing to give that to him. And for no reason at all. What had he done to deserve such kindness? Such opportunity? Though the very thought of being under the command of a woman made him writhe, she was well off. Perhaps it would better serve him to swallow his pride just this once.

"I promise I will make it worth your while." She vowed, looking at him pointedly. "I know you are of your own faculty, but I would greatly appreciate it."

The honesty was clear in her voice, and Tavington found himself at an impasse. Thunder rolled outside, and within seconds, it began to pour. He nearly scoffed; it seemed even God willed for him to stay. A symphony of rain drowned out his thoughts of disobedience to his seemingly Divine situation.

His nostrils flared as he sighed deeply through his nose, irritated. "...What would you have of me?"

She quietly sighed, pleased. "A helping hand. Farm work, mostly."

"And how much are my wages?"

"I can pay you eighteen dollars a week."

He smiled, though it was not kind. "We'll see."


	4. No Flies At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not own The Patriot.

Tavington's newfound line of work came with a plethora of benefits which he quickly found to be most pleasing.

He was granted complete run of the house, coming and going as he pleased, and doing as he wished so long as it didn't interfere with his job. His duties, strenuous as they were, did yield quite an income, well above the minimum wage, and Margaret proved true to her promise of eighteen dollars a week. Tavington hardly paid her any mind, for he was still deciding on whether or not his decision had truly been a beneficial one, but once his savings began to pile up, his mind was settled; he was not charged for food or board, and though he longed for a drink, he knew better than to squander his fortune the way his father had years ago on anything but necessities.

The first few weeks of his employment were hard, indeed, and his body - unused to such demanding physical labor - struggled to ease into its daily tasks. He had been charged with plowing the fields, making any necessary repairs to the house, tending the horses, and overseeing the slaves while they worked. His only scruple was that he was not allowed a whip, but he pleasured himself in finding more creative ways to discipline the help.

He handled all of the outside duties, while Margaret tackled the inside particulars, namely writing and cooking and housekeeping. He wondered if she ever received letters of importance (after all, she had said she had been a nurse, and as such likely had connections with generals and other such figures from the war), but didn't particularly care enough to find out for himself. His main goal was to look after his own well-being. He didn't see the young lady much, only during breakfast and dinner, and though his eyes sometimes mourned the loss of her beauty, his intellect did not.

Tavington strolled the gardens, surveying the land and the slaves working it. He hadn't bothered to learn any of their names the way Margaret had, for he saw it as an unnecessary hindrance. He watched with satisfaction as a male slave tensed while he deliberately walked past, critiquing his work as he planted tomato seeds. They had been wary of him at first, not knowing how he would treat them, but it was a friendly wariness, and that wouldn't do. It was only a matter of weeks before they began to fear his critical eye and the thump of his boots.

Finding everything to be satisfactory with the garden, he looked towards the barn, where the horses were kept. He squinted.

The door was ajar.

Deciding to investigate, Tavington left his place in the garden to see what the matter was. He entered the barn, finding one of the horses out of their stable. Swiftly grabbing it by the reigns, he led it back into its place and closed it up, searching the other stables. All remaining horses were where they should be, barebacked and unbridled, their accessories hanging on the walls behind them. He looked all around, and when no suspect presented themselves, listened.

Horses neighed and flustered, and tiny bits of dust floated in front of his face, illuminated by the tiny streaks of light filtering in through the open patches of the barn's ceiling. Seconds passed, and finally he heard it; creaks in the wood doors behind him. He quickly turned, just in time to see the house's youngest slave attempting to slip away unnoticed.

Wasting no time, Tavington apprehended the youngster, seizing him by the back of his collar and shoving him face first against the nearest stall wall.

"Thought you could get away, did you?" He chided. Sweat dripped down the slave's face, fear mixing with the heat of the day. "Come now. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Lips trembled as he stuttered for a reply. "P- please, master...it- it was a mistake! I forgot to stable her and I-" he swallowed fearfully. "I was just coming back to put her away!"

Tavington sneered, tilting his head. "Oh, I much doubt that, slave. You would have forgotten still, had I not come in here."

Jerking him backward, Tavington spun him around and grabbed hold of his throat, the young boy's head smacking against the splintered wood.

"You do realize that miss O'Neil's horse could have gone missing had I not made my appearance? My...how ever shall we rectify this situation?"

His hand enclosed upon the servant's throat, fingernails digging into his dark skin. He watched as the whites of his eyes grew wide, body trembling in terror.

"P- please, sir-" he choked. "I...promise it won't happen...again..."

Tavington's gaze darkened as his fingers clamped further around the boy's neck, employing more and more force until he could not speak at all. Muffled gasps filled the humid air around them, when finally, he let go. The boy fell to the floor, heaving in as much air as he possibly could. Tavington watched, disgust written on his features.

He did not kneel, for he had no wish to bring himself to a slave's level, but stood tall as he softly said, "Let's make sure we don't make the same mistake twice. Hm?"

The boy made no response, still gasping for air, and having finished with the conversation, Tavington sidestepped him and exited the barn.

"Stupid boy..." he muttered.

* * *

Supper time came, and Tavington ordered all to finish up their duties as he made to retire for the night.

He hadn't made it two steps toward his room when a feminine voice called him.

"Mister Tarleton. I need to speak with you."

He looked up to see Margaret standing at the threshold of the library, her hands clasped unpleasantly in front of her. Her tone was the closest to curt he'd heard it thus far, and his curiosity was beyond its limits as to what she inquired of him.

"What is it, miss O'Neil?" He inquired innocently, stepping closer as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves.

"It has come to my attention that you have been using unkind methods to produce more labor from your charges."

His face showed genuine surprise, while his mind was already working to figure out who told who what. "Unkind? Pray tell, what does your mistress consider to be...unkind?"

"I have heard tell that you are physically abusing my servants."

He scoffed gently. "I have done no such thing. I merely did what needed to be done to..." he paused, tilting his head in thought. "... _Encourage_ them to work harder."

"Resorting to violence-" he opened his mouth to correct her but she spoke over him. "Or _threats_ of violence to yield 'better' results is not the way I do things here. I do not rule with an iron fist, but a gentle hand. And though you have produced an excellent grade of work from my servants, your methods of obtaining them reflect on me as mistress of this house. If you're unwilling to change your tactics, then I am afraid I will have to cut your wages and send you on your way."

Her words struck him, recalling similar lines from another many years ago.

_The way you act reflects upon me. These brutal tactics must stop!_

Tavington smirked uncertainly, cautiously approaching his response. "My dear miss O'Neil...are you now threatening me with termination?"

She stood tall, her gaze a steel fortress. "If you will not abide by the rules of your employer? Absolutely."

His mouth fell agape. He could not believe that this mild, demure woman was putting her foot down. And in so convincing a manner. Under any other circumstance, he would have shown the woman her place in the matter, but his pride forbade his sacrifice of labor and income. He needed to be tactful, and secure his foothold in this place should a better opportunity fail to come along.

Swallowing his dignity, he thus replied: "Forgive me. I have not worked with slaves since the war, and as I'm sure you can imagine, I am...rusty."

She sighed, but her gaze softened, and he knew he had succeeded. "It's no excuse."

He nodded. "Of course."

"But you are forgiven. However, please do not let me hear of any ill word toward you again."

"You shall not, ma'am."

He bowed in deference and she in turn curtsied, and the temporary rift was mended between them.

"Now," Margaret said, smiling. "Let us dine together. Fife tells me we're having fresh pork and beans."

* * *

Though dinner was not spent in silence, it was most definitely spent in resentment.

Tavington glared pointedly at every slave present, gauging their levels of guilt for having run to Margaret to tattle. The women were more intuitive than the men, it seemed, and showed no outward signs of tell. He knew the boy had to have said something, but to who, he couldn't figure. Whether he had gone to Margaret directly, or told one of the others was unknown, though he suspected the latter. Kitch, Margaret's aide and unspoken favorite, stood by her side from across the table, waiting to be addressed or needed. Though Tavington did not particularly care for any of the slaves, Kitch tried his nerves the most. He was always at Margaret's side, night or day, and Tavington at times found it difficult to be around her because of it. He disliked him greatly, though judging by the way the tall servant currently stared him down, the feeling was mutual.

"I'm sorry for my rudeness earlier," Margaret spoke suddenly. "I was not trying to imply that I am unhappy with your work. Since hiring you on, you have produced very splendid results."

Her downcast eyes rose to meet his, and Tavington was momentarily struck by not only her beauty, but also her sincerity. It was a strange feeling, as all his life he'd been told he wasn't good enough, that his work didn't meet the standard, that he needed to change the way he conducted himself. It happened in his schooling, with his father, all the way through his military career. Not once had he heard a thank you, received a single accolade for his hard work. And yet here was this slip of a woman, telling him the contrary. How dare she.

"I...thank you, miss."

She smiled gently. "You're welcome. Your skills at commanding others truly is extraordinary. I just wish you would find other ways to demonstrate that talent. More flies come with honey."

He nodded, taking a bite of his pork. "Indeed. I'm afraid I simply cannot help that I would prefer no flies at all."


	5. Phischer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not own The Patriot.

The next morning, Tavington had called upon the slaves for an early morning 'meeting' in the barn.

He was determined to uncover the mole who had gone to Margaret over the inconsequential matter involving the young boy and the horse.

'Unkind' means. Ridiculous.

William's boots slowly thumped against the downtrodden ground of the musty barn, sizing up the slaves as he passed them in their orderly line. All twenty-two of them were present, save for Kitch, but Tavington was far too intelligent to even think to include him; after all, he was clearly the ringleader of the group, and without him present to defy him, he was free to interrogate the others however he wished.

"It has come to my attention," he began, echoing Margaret's words to him the day before. "That one of you has thought it wise to go to your mistress and report the incident from yesterday. I am here to tell you...that is most certainly not the case." His critical gaze passed deliberately slower over the boy, the little simpleton responsible for the whole mess.

"Was it you, boy?" He asked softly, tilting his head tauntingly as he bent down to his level. "Did you run to your mistress to tell of the 'injustice' done to you?"

The timid eyes that stared back at him were covered by the woman to his left as she pushed him behind her protectively, and Tavington smirked as he rose back to his full height.

"Well, well. You must be the mother. Such a shame you never taught him anything of loyalty."

Flashbacks danced behind his eyes, and he was momentarily taken back to that little farmhouse on the Santee nearly sixteen years ago.

_Ah, I see. He's your son. Well perhaps you should have taught him something of loyalty._

Shaking himself free of the resurfaced memory, he blinked back to the present. The slaves stared at him warily, and he cleared his throat and straightened his back.

"Miss O'Neil has made it quite clear that she does not wish to have any of you harmed. Even if the wrongdoing is your own fault to begin with." They shifted in their places, uncomfortable with the conclusion he was coming to. "But there are more ways than one to punish a slave. And let me assure you; I was known to be _very_ creative back in my day."

The fear in their eyes was evident, and Tavington nearly felt the need to drink it for its potency. It had been so long since he'd been feared. Respected. This may have been just what he'd needed to make himself feel alive again.

"I will only ask this once. If you come forward now, there will be no punishment, verbal or otherwise. Who. Spoke. To Margaret?"

He stepped back to gauge the expressions of the people present, looking for even the smallest telltale signs of guilt. The seconds that passed were tense, and though he had been fairly certain at least one of them would turn on the others and crack under the pressure, not a single man, woman, or child admitted to any such thing.

Silence fell thick through the air, and when he had lost his patience, Tavington gave his judgment.

"Very well, then. If you will not speak, then I shall punish all of you fairly. In accordance with your mistress' wishes."

"You'll never turn us on one another!" A lone woman barked from the far end. "We're loyal to our own and our mistress! You have no right!"

Her husband yanked her back in line, shushing her furiously as he tried to cover her mouth.

Tavington redirected his attentions to her, amused at her antics. "On the contrary, I have every right. Your mistress was quite clear when she hired me on that I was to do...oh, what were her words...'however I see fit'?"

She glared but said nothing, and her husband's hand dropped from her mouth.

William stood tall, running his gaze over every slave as he commanded their attention. "Your workloads have just been doubled. Thanks to your..." he looked back at the woman, his blue eyes warm as ice. "'Loyalty'."

He pointed to the young boy, singling him out amongst the rest. "Except you. You will do nothing for the next week except watch as your fellow workers pull your weight."

Already, he could see the seed of resentment in the eyes of the others, and he almost couldn't wait until the supposed 'loyalty' they'd claimed to hold for one another shattered to pieces at his hands.

He smiled pleasantly, gesturing to the barn doors. "Carry on, then. You've a long week ahead of you. Best not waste any time."

Slowly, they filed out, the boy giving him a wary backwards glance as he exited the barn. Tavington gave a malicious smile, causing him to scamper off. He would find out who the problem child was. And when he did, he would deal with them accordingly.

* * *

The days came and passed, and miss O'Neil's eye gradually became less critical of him and his treatment toward her slaves, until finally things slipped back into normalcy.

Despite the incident involving the nameless boy (N'Wela, he had later come to learn) and the horse, Margaret commended him for giving him a week off work duties to 'think about what he had done'. Tavington waited with a listening ear for one of his charges to tell on him to their mistress once again, but he had not laid a hand on any of them since receiving his first reprimanding, and so he knew he'd done his job properly when no such news came, and his tactics had worked; thus far.

He was well aware that he had procured a very fortunate living situation, and had no intention of sacrificing it to anyone lest another, significantly better opportunity presented itself. Miss O'Neil truly was a generous benefactor, true to her word and relatively easy to please, though he thought her kindness and gentle nature to be pitfalls of her character. How he had managed to come into her good graces before any other was beyond him.

William wiped the sweat from his eyes, no longer wishing to be outside. He longed for a drink - ached for it, actually - but miss O'Neil kept no liquors in the kitchen or pantry, and she kept access to the wine cellar under lock and key. He wondered if she knew of his drinking problem - after all, she _had_ found him outside a bar - but decided he would rather not know what she truly thought of him. As long as she kept up with their agreed payments, her personal opinions were no concern of his.

Ordering one of the slaves to finish up with the garden, he made his way back to the farmhouse to get a refreshment. Hopping up onto the porch, he crossed the short distance to the door and went inside. He took a deep breath as he savored the slightly cooler, shaded air that surrounded him, and made his way down the hall to the kitchen. Dishware clattered loudly in the silent house as he poured himself a cup of cider, wishing the liquid were cooler going down his throat than it was. But a drink was a drink, and it was better than nothing. Among the many amenities Miss O'Neil possessed, an ice house was also one of them; perhaps he could ask for her permission to use it for drinks.

Circling his glass of cider with his forefinger, Tavington mused on his thoughts a few moments more before deciding his break time must be concluded. Sighing silently, he carried his drink with him back through the house, passing by the library to see Margaret reading. She was content, rocking back and forth in her chair as she turned a page with a delicate turn of the wrist. And what was this? No Kitch?

"Mister Tarleton, hello," she greeted. "What brings you inside?"

He held up his glass of cider. "I was merely fetching a drink. It is rather hot outside today."

She made a flushed face. "Whew. You do not jest. I, too, have been struggling with the heat. It's worse upstairs."

"Yes, it does tend to be worse as heat rises."

"Yes indeed."

An awkward beat of silence passed, and William began to wonder if he should excuse himself or simply take leave.

"You are welcome to join, Mister Tarleton." Margaret gestured to her book and the empty chair beside hers. "But please be aware that I enjoy silence when I read."

He blinked, genuinely surprised. The thought of being able to once again peruse a library piqued his interest, but also made him wary; he had been disappointed by many an aristocrat's collection, and so he doubted if a colonial widow's would be much better. Still, an excuse to stay shielded from the day's blistering heat a bit longer was a most welcome one.

"I thank you, miss. It is noted."

Silently, he crossed the threshold to the reading room. It was decently sized; not vast, but not as small as he had assumed it to be, for this was his first true turn about the room since having been invited to stay. He had never had the time to ask permission before, and so he had never intruded. Margaret watched him from the corner of her eye, an almost mischievous smile at her lips. Feigning disinterest, Tavington moved to the row of bookshelves furthest away from her, eyes drifting lazily over the spines and their titles.

One in particular caught his interest, for he remembered having started it during his time under the command of Cornwallis, but never finishing it.

_Over seven years ago..._

He pulled it from the shelf and sifted through its pages, key words and chapter titles jolting his memory but unable to pinpoint where exactly he had left off. Exhaling, he took the book and seated himself next to Margaret, who had already gone back to reading. She rocked back and forth in her chair, the low grinding the only sound to be heard in the whole of the house.

Her manservant, Kitch, decided on that time to reenter the room, having brought a drink for Margaret. She thanked him as he reclaimed his place at her side, and Tavington swallowed, trying to make himself comfortable. He was unsure why, but he found himself unable to focus on any of the words on the page before him. It wasn't until Margaret had turned a page in her own book that he was able to snap himself out of his daze and begin reading. He didn't understand why it was proving so difficult to sit back and enjoy a good book, but he absolutely refused to believe the young woman sitting in the chair next to him had anything to do with it; and _certainly_ not Kitch.

 _Preposterous_ , his mind remarked snidely.

Giving his head the slightest of shakes, he brought up an ankle to rest on his opposite knee and relive Jacob Tollwright's Phischer.

* * *

Nearly an hour passed, and both Margaret and Tavington were well immersed in their books.

He would never admit it aloud, but he was truly pleased to have found something from his past that he was able to enjoy again, and he was decided that this was something he would finish on a positive note.

Phischer had just received word that his father had left, abandoned him and his mother to go traipsing around the world with vagabonds. This was the scene he remembered most clearly out of the entirety of what he'd read all those years ago, and he sped through it with bitter disdain, reminded of his own father. He would never forget walking into the parlor after finishing his lessons with his governess to find his mother in tears, his father's crumpled note in her hands. He hadn't even the decency to tell them in person that he was leaving, and leaving _them_ with nothing. If it had not been for his mother's family connections, he was certain they'd have been destitute for the remainder of their lives. He wondered where she resided now, given she were still alive. But that was another question in his life that would most likely never be answered.

He finished with the chapter of the book, stopping at the fifth. He pulled the ribbon into place to mark his spot and closed _Phischer_ , jolting Margaret from her own novel.

"Finished so soon?"

"I am afraid I must be getting back to work, Miss O'Neil."

She smiled. "William?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Call me Margaret."

An unknown feeling shot through him, and though dull and mysterious in its origins, he brushed it away. "Very well, miss-"

She raised a brow.

"...Margaret."

She smiled fully now, showing teeth as she reopened her book.

"Very well. Carry on with your good work. _William_."

He bowed and left the room, feeling as though he were unable to get to the porch door fast enough. Though it had been cooler inside, he felt he could _breathe_ once his skin hit the sun, and he all but rushed back into his daily grind amidst the slaves. Anything to keep his mind occupied from the house and the woman residing in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was researching books written in the 1700s that Tavington might like, but the list I found was very limited and uninteresting. 
> 
> However, I could have sworn Phischer was an actual book I had come across. I can picture the cover and everything, but alas, when I tried to find it again, Google failed me. So don’t go looking for it, because it apparently doesn’t exist ^^


	6. Quiet Minds and Quiet Tongues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I’m such an idiot. Had to delete and repost cuz I accidentally posted a chapter ahead 😂 Ah well.
> 
> I do not own The Patriot.

The following day proved to be just as hot as the last, and Tavington wondered when this Carolina heat would end.

He dressed himself, ate breakfast with Margaret, and began the day's work. After hours in the heat, he once again found himself in the kitchen for a drink of cider, and as he swallowed it down, he wondered if Margaret would let him use her library a second time. To test this theory, he finished his drink and set his glass aside, deliberately taking his time as he passed by the reading room. Margaret was once again in her rocking chair, Kitch attentively at her side, only this time she sat completely still as she read through the same book she'd had before. She slowly began raising her head from the page she was on until finally she locked eyes with him. Whatever scene she was engrossed in must have been captivating.

"William, hello. Care to join me a second time?"

Pleased and a bit surprised that he did not have to so much as open his mouth, he bowed his head and acquiesced. He picked up his copy of _Phischer_ from the day before and traced his finger down the edge of the pages until he found the ribbon place marker. He pulled until chapter five came into view, and he sat next to Margaret and adopted his same pose from yesterday. He tastefully ignored Kitch's eyes glaring holes into his skull as he read, instead focusing on the words in front of him. Phischer was not out to sea yet, it seemed, as he remembered when he had been reading back during the war. He wondered how much further he had to go before he was caught up.

Margaret quietly sighed beside him, and it could not be helped as he quirked his head just the slightest bit and shot a quick glance in her direction. She made no indication that she was aware he was looking at her, her forehead and cheek cradled in her hand as she stared forlornly at the pages of her book.

 _Probably some romantic drivel_ , he surmised.

He turned his attentions back to his own book and continued reading. Some few minutes passed and he was able to get ahead by a few more pages when Margaret sighed again, this time louder.

Tavington glanced at Margaret, unintentionally locking eyes with Kitch before turning away again. It was a simple thing. No louder than a pen drop. Most likely, she was not even aware she was doing it. But the noise...the _noise_ in this otherwise ungodly silent house. And when he was trying to _read_ , no less. To immerse himself in the story war had deprived him of enjoying and finishing. Damn this woman.

Biting his tongue, Tavington once again attempted to ignore Margaret's distracting behavior, nestling Phischer a bit higher in his lap. He had originally wanted an excuse to stay inside a bit longer, where it was cool, but now he was considering throwing himself out into the heat, all be damned. Minutes passed, and eventually, he was able to forget Margaret and engross himself in the story, for he had finally caught up to where he had left off.

_Phischer did not know where his journey would take him, only that the winds were favorable, and The Universal was at last seaworthy. He glanced at his compass, noting the northwest in his sights. Finally, he would find it. Providence would lead the way, and after twenty-eight years on God's Earth, he was to be the first man known to have found-_

A long, drawn out sigh beside him, and Tavington had had enough.

He turned fully to look at her, an unkind smile on his face as he let his facade finally crack. "Might I _inquire_ as to what you are reading, Miss O'Neil?"

The flash in her eyes told him that his clipped tone did not go unnoticed, and Margaret was readily armed with a reply.

"Simply the best book in my entire library."

He saw that she angled it further from his view, and he realized she had no intention of showing him. Why, that little-

"Why do you ask?" she inquired, cutting off his uncivil thought. " _Mister_ Tarleton?"

He ignored her mocking tone completely. "Well, I simply recall your mistress stating that she preferred _silence_ when she read. So I must inquire as to the quality of the novel you are so _engrossed_ in that it causes you to forget yourself."

"It appears that only one of us has forgotten themselves. Or have you forgotten your wages and state of living?"

His eyes involuntarily widened at her statement; she was right. Absolutely correct in every sense of the word. And he could not find a single way to combat it. Damn the little colonial.

Sneering, Tavington bit back a retort and responded as courteously as his current mood allowed. "Of course not, Miss. I must beg your pardon."

"Miss...?"

He ground his teeth. " _Miss Margaret_."

"It is given," she sighed easily, waving a hand in dismissal. "This Carolina heat gets to us all at times. I do apologize for interrupting your reading. Please, do continue for however long you see fit."

God, this woman was infuriating. Just as aggressive as she was kind. How on God's green earth did he ever agree to stay here under her petite thumb?

"As you wish, my lady."

They continued reading and Margaret ceased her sighing, and after over an hour, Tavington set his book down on the table between them and stood up, stretching his aching limbs; at forty-four years of age, it was a wonder he was not in poorer health.

"I thank you for your time, Miss."

"See you at supper?"

"Of course." He bowed, giving Kitch a murderous stare which was returned with equal vigor as he exited the library, boots thumping all the way to the porch.

Margaret laughed as she looked at Kitch. "It appears that only one of us has a quiet mind while the other a quiet tongue."

Kitch smiled, unable to help himself as he laughed with her. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Outside, Tavington flared hot with anger.

How dare she. How dare a colonial disrespect him and his position. His predicament. Unfortunate predicament, at that. Why, if she had even the slightest inkling of who he was and what he'd done to peasants like her, he'd no doubt she would have held her tongue. Bit it off if she'd had to. And even though this thought comforted him, it still did not fix his situation, nor did it change the fact that he owed his earnings, his food, his shelter, his very way of living, to her. A woman. A colonial. An enemy.

Oh, if she only knew the sense of superiority he held over her, _would_ hold over her if things had been different. If the British had won the war. If men like Cornwallis had been more adaptive and America had been claimed for King and Country. Then he would see to it that he were the one with the currency, the slaves, the power over people like her. He briefly imagined her crouched at the knee while she shined his fine leather boots in place of one of his many servants while sitting in a plush, ornate chair in _his_ own personal reading room, and the thought satisfied him.

Stepping off the porch, Tavington surveyed Margaret's slaves with a hateful eye, looking for even the slightest thing to be amiss in their work with the horses, in the fields, amongst the gardens. They took notice of his current mood almost immediately, and all avoided eye contact as they focused more diligently on their tasks. He still had yet to uncover the culprit who had outed him to Margaret, but he was a patient man. At least he had struck fear into their hearts within the confinements set upon him.

Little N'Wela came trotting past with a pale of water for the animals, his week of alienation far behind him.

And it was then that an idea came to him. An idea most novel.

Perhaps - and this was merely conjecture - there was something to be gained from all of this. After all, Margaret seemed to be a very trusting woman to let a complete stranger into her household and boost his status to overseer so quickly. And though she clearly did not find his true character traits to be enjoyable, she responded very easily to submissiveness and polite conversation. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could gain her trust so far as to will him into her fortune. Or better yet, brush elbows with other wealthy, amiable ladies in search of a husband, should she have any such connections. Or even marry her outright, though the idea of matrimony with a colonial sickened him. And then he could take her plantation right out from under her. Take her money. And return home.

Yes. A novel idea indeed.

Tavington smiled deviously to himself as he overlooked the field, unknowingly causing the slaves in that direction to become overrun with paranoia as they began weeding at their very highest speeds.

The only dilemma he faced was which scheme to attempt first, whether it be to court Miss O'Neil or to play the waiting game for a better opportunity. He'd heard tell that British heiresses - widows - resided in America, stranded with the rest of them. Though he knew it could very well all be simple rumor, he was willing to wager that some truth lay in its foundations. Though the chances of actually finding one such a lady were very, very slim. Still...

He was interrupted from his musings as the back door creaked open and he turned to see Margaret coming to sit outside, Kitch holding the door for her. She sat in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, smiling as N'Wela came to present her with a basket of peaches. She accepted them and took the boy into her arms, sitting him on her lap and saying something in his ear that made him laugh. She had a lovely smile. And it was so easy to evoke. He was certain that, should he play his cards right, he could earn his way to her hand, and ultimately her fortune. He could afford to make the voyage to England and return home, perhaps learn what became of his mother. And Margaret Tavington - even Margaret Tarleton - was not unpleasant to the ears. He dared say there was a chance she would make the journey with him, should she prove to be capable of upholding high societal behaviors.

He continued to observe Margaret from his place some yards off, his mind made up.

Perhaps she had been right after all; perhaps God did smile on those at their lowest points.


	7. You and God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Happy Thanksgiving 2020, everyone! 
> 
> I do not own The Patriot.

Supper time came with the falling of the sun, and William was glad to have the day over with.

He was very hungry, and secretly hoped that pork would be the main dish tonight. He went inside, leaving the slaves to put the farming equipment away and finish whatever they were doing before going to join the rest in preparing dinner. His back was drenched with sweat, and his hair was stringy, and stuck in his eyes. Perhaps he should bathe before dining; after all, women - even kind, unassuming women such as Margaret - did not tend to favor men who appeared unseemly. Best do all he could to boost his chances.

He slicked his hair back and strolled down the hall to the staircase leading to his room, at the same time passing a female slave (Aaliyah, as Margaret insisted on calling her) carrying a basket of freshly picked peaches. He stopped to address her.

"I would like to take a bath. Please ensure that Miss O'Neil is made aware that I will be late to supper."

Aaliyah nodded timidly, sparsely making eye contact before she went on her way with her cargo of fruit to let the others know to prepare his bath and to tell Margaret. She was one of the more manageable slaves on the plantation, and though they all filled him with disdain, he could readily admit to himself that life would be ideal if every one of them would simply follow suit in her behavior. Perhaps that was something to be exploited at a later time.

Tavington disappeared to his room, unbuttoning his shirt once the water and towels had been brought up, leaving his suspenders in place. He rinsed his face in the basin, scrubbing away the day's sweat and grime. He grabbed the hand towel and dried his forehead, nose, and cheeks, patting himself down all the way to the neck. He then took the bar of soap at the edge of the basin and worked a lather into his scalp, scrubbing away the grease. He hadn't recalled having so much hair to clean. It must have grown considerably during his time here without him noticing.

Once finished, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, turning slightly. His dark locks reached all the way past his shoulder blades, far longer than he last remembered leaving them. He made a mental note to give himself a trim, and continued to observe his image. The lines in his face had truly aged more prominently, his eyes a tad more sunken, his skin more weathered than it had been. He thought back to when he had been a dragoon, when he had taken so much pride and care in his appearance. How far away those days now seemed.

But his eyes. His eyes still held the same icy shade of blue that contrasted the rest of him so perfectly, and were still capable of striking fear into the hearts of those that met his gaze. All except Margaret. A tiny slip of a woman whose good grace and kind nature somehow overpowered the ability he once thought so special. How ever was he to compete with such a creature?

"My, my, William..." he whispered at his reflection. "What have you let yourself become?"

He slid off one of his suspenders and let one side of his shirt drop below his waist as he continued bathing, splashing water along his arm, chest, and abdomen. Scars marked his body in various places, some from his childhood, others from battle. Though none of them caused him pain or permanent damage, he still would rather the luxury of forgetting his past mistakes every time he washed or readied for bed.

He continued to clean himself, disappointed that the water was not colder; it seemed even the river waned in the summer of South Carolina. He could remember a time when he had once used a wealthy heiress's full-sized tub back in Britain, and oh, had it been luxurious. Hot water, enough room to fully submerge himself in, servants at every beck and call with towels, soaps, and food. How times had changed.

It was Saturday, he realized, the day before church. Though he knew it was common to bathe oneself on weekend nights such as these, Tavington did not attend church. Margaret had invited him to come along with her many times, but he simply had no desire to set foot inside a mediocre place of worship built by colonials and sit amongst Protestants. England was loyal to the Roman Catholic Church, and though he had never been overly religious for the entirety of his life, he was unwilling to stray from the most basic beliefs and principles that he had been raised upon. God forbid if he communed inside a church that he otherwise would have burnt to the ground.

He recalled one church in particular he had thrown a torch to, when he had been investing nearly all of his energies and resources into finding and snuffing out the Ghost, Benjamin Martin. He remembered every one of their faces so clearly. The man, who swore he knew nothing of what he had inquired, the reverend, who tossed them all to the wolves, dooming them...the woman, who cried with her mother. He never did quite understand why he could see their faces as though it were yesterday, why his chest burned with an unsettling feeling when he remembered taking the torch from Wilkins and doing what he had not the loyalty or wherewithal to do. Perhaps if one of the others had committed the act, had thrown it upon their conscience, it would not have floated to his mind so readily when nightfall came.

A creak in the wood jolted him from his thoughts, and he looked to see Margaret standing in the doorway. He began to fumble, unsure if he should shoo her away or attempt to dress, and accidentally dropped the rag he'd been holding.

He apologized as he bent to pick it up, and Margaret waved a hand. "There is no need. I simply wished to know why you thought you could forego supper. Am I truly such terrible company?"

He stuttered at her laugh, truly flustered. "For- forgive me. I had specifically instructed the servant to inform you that I would merely be _late_ to supper, not that I was forgoing it."

Her smile turned gentle, then fell slightly as she caught sight of his chest. Finally remembering his scars, William immediately began to dress himself, not wanting her to question him about the various old wounds that marred his skin.

"Stop, let me see."

His fingers paused at her gentle command, and his mind became blank as she slowly entered the room and stepped toward him. Her fingers reached him first, and she carefully soothed his hands away from the buttons of his shirt as she brought his scars back into view. It was extremely unnerving for him to be put on display such as he was, to be at the judgment and mercy of a human being who might as well have been fodder to him and his country. Even if her already pleasing features proved to be more so up close.

"How did you receive these?" she asked quietly.

Her brow was knit in concentration as she analyzed his chest and collarbone, and he realized she was looking at him with a medical eye. How often he had to remind himself she had been a nurse.

He swallowed, and her eyes darted momentarily to his Adam's apple. He could lie. But then would she be smart enough to realize such a thing were not true? He had absolutely no desire for her to learn of the origins of his wounds, but clearly the evidence was right before her. Perhaps a half-truth would suffice.

"I don't recall half of them."

The tips of her fingers glided over a particularly long and jagged scar across his right pectoral, stretching all the way to his shoulder.

"Do you recall this one?"

His gaze followed her hand, and he once again attempted a half-truth.

"A puncture wound. I was sliced by a soldier's sword."

It had actually been a bayonet from a now dead rebel militia member, a completely preventable accident that could have been avoided had it not been for his strict orders from Cornwallis to behave as a gentleman on the battlefield, but she was in no way required to know such intimate details about his history.

Margaret's gaze shot up to meet his, and he could tell that his explanation was not wholeheartedly believed. But she said nothing, and moved on to the next point of interest to her.

"And this one?"

His breathing became somewhat shallow as her hand slid lower, to the bullet wound near his left hip. That one, he would never forget. He had received that scar from Benjamin Martin's son, the spy. Had the boy's aim been any better, it would have hit an organ, and he would not have survived.

Unable to stand it any longer, he seized her wrists. "Miss O'Neil, I do not think it prudent to-"

"William, how many times have I implored you to call me Margaret?"

"... _Many_ , ma'am. But I cannot allow you to-"

"To what? Observe your wounds? I am a nurse. These things concern me."

He tensed his jaw, the full brunt of her proximity affecting his countenance. "I am in a state of _undress_ , your mistress."

"And as I said before, I was previously occupied as a nurse. Believe me when I say that I have seen _plenty_ of men in a state of undress."

He grit his teeth, frustrated. "That is not the point, Margaret. It is improper for a woman of your status to be seen with another man who is neither your relation _nor_ your _husband_."

She cocked her brow at his increasingly aggressive tone. "Truly? And do you see anyone that could possibly witness such an exchange and run crying all throughout the town to declare it?"

He could not argue; there were none others present but them.

Margaret's gaze softened. "What people do not know will not hurt them. And it is none of their affairs, regardless."

She stared up at him with a look of firm determination, and it was then that he became momentarily lost in her blue irises. God, she was beautiful. Truly a creature of Divine making. But she was a colonial. And deep down, an enemy. And if things were different, she would spit upon his very bones just like the rest. He could not allow himself to think of her in any other way if his plans of marrying into her fortune were to succeed.

"Perhaps not," he surmised, his own gaze hardening. "But I am above situations such as this. And I will not sully myself nor you with the implications."

He removed her hands from his person, pushing her back so as to divide them. His wet hair fell into his face, and he angrily pushed it back.

"If being perfectly clothed in a room with a respectable man is an implication, I shiver to think what your standards for other aspects of life are."

They stood in silence, Margaret waiting patiently for him to respond when he had no intention of doing so.

"You need a trim," she remarked, reaching out to tuck yet another damned loose strand behind his ear as she'd done the day he'd arrived. Tavington, however, did not respond kindly to the gesture, ignoring her observation completely as he none too gently grabbed hold of the offending hand and looked sternly at her.

"I must ask your mistress to _leave_."

Margaret breathed a deep, displeased sigh, expression somber. His grip was still present on her wrists, but she did not struggle. "Might I ask why you so vehemently resist aid from others? What have you done that is so terrible to have forced you to come upon the conclusion that you cannot afford yourself the luxury of happiness?"

Tavington's eyes flashed. As though happiness were something to be afforded. How dare she imply that he himself was to blame for his own predicament. If he had any control over his life whatsoever, he'd be back in England right this very moment, not discussing moral dilemmas with a widowed planter in South Carolina. Yes, he would most willingly give himself over to happiness if he were truly in charge of himself, but God and the world had other plans.

Taking the opportunity to further drive his point, he took her wrists and slowly began to push back, matching every step of hers with one of his own.

"You know nothing of me," he said lowly, eyes boring into hers. "You know neither of my _origins_ nor my _principles_ -" Her eyes flashed with panic, but still he drove her back. "-You merely came upon a drunken vagabond and took it in your heart to nurse him back to health like a _common stray_."

Her back finally hit the wall and she became flush with William, who angled his head down towards hers until they were mere inches apart. " _I_ _am_ _not_. _A_ _respectable_. _Man_."

Her eyes suddenly held a quality akin to steel, and she did not hesitate to combat him. "If you were not respectable, you would not have shown restraint thus far."

He laughed silently, and without humor.

"How bold of your mistress to assume I must exercise restraint in your company."

Though her lips parted, she spoke no words, and upon observing her features for a few moments more, Tavington released her and stepped away. He heard Margaret's footsteps creak toward the door, but she did not exit just yet, instead attempting to further a point of her own.

"I see potential in you, William."

He scoffed, turning to face her. "Potential? What in God's name for? _Labor?"_

"For redemption." she answered. "I believe you have been searching - for a long time - for an opportunity to better yourself. And let go of..." she trailed off, choosing her words carefully. " _Whatever_ it is that is keeping you from being the man you wish to be."

He swallowed back the desire to spit in her face. _The man he wished to be._ The absurdity of it made him want to laugh, but the reality of it provoked him to violence, tempted him to wring her pretty neck until she could speak no more blatant truths. And though he no longer knew who the man was that he wished to be, he did know that he was in no need of an American widow to tell him what he himself already knew, had no wish to take sage advice from a woman nearly half his age. She could live five _lifetimes_ and never have experienced the hardships he'd faced in his one.

" _Being_ and _wishing_ to be are two separate things, Miss O'Neil."

Slowly, she shook her head. She clasped her hands in front of her, as she so often did when she was displeased. "You are wrong. It's as simple as making a choice."

"And if I choose?" he asked. "What then? Will I be forgiven and all be well and right with the world?"

"You may," she challenged. "But that is between you and God."

The hairs on his nape stood on end as she spoke the words, and whatever retaliatory comment he'd had on his tongue vanished as his expression took on one of a man witnessing an apparition. He stumbled back to leaning against the wash basin for support, nearly tripping over himself as he did so.

Margaret gently kneaded her wrists, looking them over for bruises or marks. "I will have Kitch bring you your supper so you may eat upstairs. Goodnight, mister Tarleton."

_But you said...we'd be forgiven!_

"Leave," he breathed shakily, feeling as though the air had been sucked from his lungs.

_And indeed you may!_

She smiled disdainfully and turned and left the room, closing the door behind her but not latching it. Tavington stared after her through the thin crack, watching as she descended the staircase to dine alone.

_But that is between you and God._

William composed himself and sat on his bed, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.

Those words...how could she...

No, he reasoned. It had to be coincidence. There was no possible way she knew; of the church, the brutality he'd demonstrated, of _him_. He thought back to that day, to the people present and the ones who'd burned. He was certain no one had escaped that church, that only he and his dragoons had witnessed the events of that day.

It must have been a coincidence.

That was all.

For if she had known of his identity from the beginning, and still taken it upon herself to give him shelter, _willingly_ , then...what did that make him? If she were truly a good and righteous person, what was he in comparison? It could not be true. He could not accept the notion that he and everything he had fought for were anything less than right, anything other than the straight and true way.

Margaret seemed to have no comprehension of what she'd been saying, unaware of the impact of her words. Perhaps it was Divine intervention, God's way of sending him a message. But of what? To go through with his plan, and return home? Or to attempt to change himself, to attain the redemption he'd so desperately wanted since losing his honor to his late father? Or something else entirely?

His bedroom door opened and Kitch appeared with a tray of food, which he wordlessly laid next to him before leaving without so much as a backwards glance. Under any other circumstance, he would have called out his insubordination, but the shock of the events from moments prior still held a firm grip on him.

_What did this mean? And what did it mean for his chances with Margaret and her fortune, for returning home?_

He sat down on his bed and ate his dinner, willing himself to be happy though he was not.

Fife had prepared pork.


	8. Affliction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Hope you like the update :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

The days proceeding after that night’s events became very somber, so much so that even the servants began to worry.

William and Margaret no longer dined together, William instead opting to eat in his room. Though he did not mind solitary, he did mourn the loss of his privileges to the library, for though Margaret had never officially banned him from the room and its contents, she still resided there for much of the day, and he had neither the energy nor the time for the confrontation.

A week had passed in this manner, with both parties equally avoiding each other. The tension that built as a result of this was no small thing, and the servants began to whisper amongst themselves as to when Margaret would finally cut William’s wages and send him on his way. None seemed too keen on either mending the rift, however, that was certain; Tavington was favored by none but Margaret, and he had successfully angered the one person on the entire plantation who would stand by him when not a soul would.

Though William initially feared his termination, she gave no such order, and after the first week had passed, he was able to somewhat settle. It was Tuesday, the tenth day after their argument in his bedroom, and he once again found himself alone for dinner. An empty tray that once held chicken and vegetables sat beside him on the bed; Kitch or one of the other servants would be coming to retrieve it at any moment. He thirsted for a drink, a drink that was not the cider he had been served tonight. But alas, he was out of luck.

It had been a good three months since his last true drink, and he ached increasingly every day for a simple glass of ale or beer. The cravings had become worse since his conversation with Margaret, for it forced him to think of his situation and caused his mind to be elsewhere when attending to his work duties. Since she had not acted by now on her chance to terminate him from the plantation, he assumed his foothold was secure in this place should he simply apologize, but his pride had forbade him from doing so thus far. He was unsure as to why it came so difficult to him, but a part of him had hoped that Margaret would be the one to extend her hand and offer reconciliation so that he may be spared from the action himself. Clearly, however, this was not the case, and now, after more than a week of watching and waiting, he realized that she most likely would not break.

A knock on his door came, and Kitch entered to retrieve his tray and dishes.

“Is everything in order, sir?” He asked all too politely, and William’s nostrils flared in anger.

He merely glared at the taller man in response, though it was clear that Kitch was not expecting a response in the first place; since the Saturday before last, Margaret’s right hand had been mockingly gentlemanly toward the ex-colonel. He’d no doubt that he expected his expulsion from the premises at any time.

Kitch bowed and left the room, swinging the door closed but not latching it, and William glared holes into his skull as he walked away, gaze softening only when Margaret came into view as she met him at the top of the stairs.

“Kitch, would you please fetch me a drink from the cellar?”

He watched intently as he saw her hand Kitch a ring of keys.

“Of course, ma’am. It would be my pleasure.”

She smiled weakly and placed a hand to her forehead.

“Is miss alright?”

“Oh, yes.” she responded quietly. “I am merely tired. I am going to prepare for bed. Please place the keys back in my drawer when you are done.”

“Of course.”

He bowed and descended the stairs with the keys and tray, and Tavington found this information to be most interesting. A strong sense of tiredness coming over him, he rose from his bed and shut the door, walking over to the basin to begin washing and undressing for bed.

Yes, most interesting indeed, but he was not a thief; he may not have been in possession of much, but he still prided himself on his morals and principles.

He finished preparing for bed and shut off the lamp, much in need of a good night’s rest.

* * *

Tavington rolled over in his bed, becoming increasingly frustrated.

Why was he unable to find a comfortable position? Achieve rest? Had he even slept a wink? He could not tell. He only knew that it was still nightfall, and he was unable to fall asleep for any longer than what felt like a few minutes.

It was his stomach. It had unsettled him all night, feeling too empty and too full all at once. The thirst from earlier had returned, but more potent this time. Far more. Dare he say unbearable.

He again rolled over. Why, why, _why_ did it have to be tonight? Why did he crave something with such vigor when he had been so overworked the day before? What hour of the night was it? He lay there, loose hair pooled around his head and shoulders as he curled into himself. He should close his eyes. Go back to sleep. Ready himself for the day ahead. But his throat was so dry...

His hands clenched, a nervous sweat coming over him. What was the matter with him? Had he fallen sick? Had last night’s dinner not agreed with him? But then why was he so thirsty all of the sudden? And for ale, nonetheless? He’d done well, he’d been doing _so_ well to keep away from the bars and taverns up to this point, why now did he feel an urge so strong it awoke him? He couldn’t spend his money. Not yet. Not on booze. Not after how long and hard he’d worked to acquire what little he had. He would not allow himself to throw his earnings away on drinks.

He thought of Margaret’s wine cellar, and the particulars of where the keys were hidden. He could so easily take them and sate his thirst...

He perished the thought.

No. He would not resort to stealing. He was a better man than that.

He shifted on his side and swallowed, his throat feeling as though it were filled with sand. God, he was thirsty. Perhaps water...?

But he did not ache for water. He ached for wine.

 _Is it truly theft when the person you are stealing from has already stolen from you?_ His mind taunted. _She is a_ colonial _. They have already taken from Great Britain simply by_ existing _. They steal from His Majesty and England every day they continue to breathe and seduce more and more away from king and country._

He faltered, still wrestling with the logic of the notion.

 _They have already stolen your life from you,_ his conscience echoed. _You would be back home right this moment if not for them, for this war. A drink is a small price to pay for such a costly demise._

His gaze hardened as he glared into the darkness, his mind made up.

Slowly pulling himself out of bed, William loosely dressed himself and dislodged the oil lamp from its place on the wall, lighting it and carefully making his way down the hall to Margaret’s room. He crept inside, keeping as quiet as he could as he made his way over to her nightstand and slid open the drawer. Ever so slowly taking the key ring out of its hiding place, he tried to justify what he was doing - or about to do - in his mind.

It was only one drink. That was all he needed. She herself would probably never know it was gone. And being a colonial, she owed him that much.

He crept downstairs, taking time with each step lest the creaking wake the mistress.

He made it to the bottom, the pads of his feet sliding silently against the wood floors as he crossed the open space of the foyer. He was halfway across when he noticed something, a small light off to his left and beyond the back porch door.

A figure sat rocking in their chair, a half spent oil lamp on the floor next to them. They were wrapped in a blanket, their back to him, and it wasn’t until he came closer and caught sight of blonde hair that he realized it was Margaret. _What was she doing out here so late at night?_

He began to make his way toward her, but froze upon the floorboards creaking under his weight. His breath seized, and he waited to see if she would incline her head towards him, but she did not, just kept rocking, rocking...

Tavington stood a moment, deciding on what he should do. He wondered what she was doing out this late by herself. It was certainly _odd_ to say the least for a young lady to be up and about at this time of night. Or was it night at all?

The ache in his stomach returned with a vengeance, and though he wanted to approach Margaret, his muscles instinctively retreated from her figure, and he shrank away back towards the kitchen.

He walked until he reached the cellar door, and began fumbling with the key, trying each one until the lock finally turned, and the cool underground air gently blew past him. Slowly, he crept down, senses on high alert knowing Margaret was so close by. He reached the end of the stairs and began searching the various bottles along the wall, looking for what he needed.

_What was this?_

Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey...nothing but damned American whiskey!

Desperate, William made a choice, and grabbed the first bottle he could see. He opened it with some difficulty, but did not encounter any hardship in tilting the bottle back. The harsh, disgusting liquid seared down his throat, the flavor wild and unfamiliar to him as he drank like a starving sailor surrounded by nothing but seawater. He drank and he hated himself for being so weak, but his current need was being fulfilled. Before he knew it, a third of the bottle was gone, and he had to stop himself from downing the entire thing. Margaret flashed in his mind, and he decided to re-cork the bottle and place it back where he’d found it; best keep his deed a secret.

Finally sated, he turned and made his way out of the cellar and locked it, retreating back to his room to settle for however many hours of the night he had left. He emerged in the foyer again to see Margaret no longer rocking in her chair, instead standing at the edge of the porch with the blanket still wrapped around her. Such a strange woman. She made absolutely no sense to him at all, and yet...

He was torn from his thoughts by the sight of Kitch coming from the slave quarters, and he quickly blew out the oil lamp and ducked behind the nearest wall.

“What you doin’ out here so early in the mornin’?” he asked gently as he came to stand before her. Margaret stood on the top step and still he was taller.

“You need not worry. I simply cannot seem to sleep tonight.”

“Is it Master Tarleton?”

This piqued his interest, and William strained his ears to listen.

“Sometimes I wonder if I am truly doing right...or if it is all in vain.”

Her tone was sad yet pondering, as though Kitch were not even there, and she was merely echoing an insistent thought.

“You’re doin’ the right thing, ma’am. It takes a certain kinda woman to do what you’re doin’ now.”

Crickets filled the silence around them. Margaret spoke again.

“Thank you, Kitch. It is much appreciated.”

“Anytime, ma’am.”

William silently exhaled, slightly frustrated. The conversation was vague, extremely vague. He wondered if perhaps they knew he was in hiding, or if Margaret simply did not wish to share her thoughts. Perhaps her relationship with Kitch was not as tightly bound as he had assumed.

He continued to wait behind the wall, until finally Kitch left and Margaret retired back to her room. The warm glow of her oil lamp cast a safe halo around her form as she drifted unknowingly past him and up the stairs, her steps almost ghostly in their silence. Tavington waited until he heard her bedroom door click, and then waited a few minutes more until he was sure she would not re-emerge.

He clenched the key ring in his hand; how was he going to return them now without her knowing? Deciding to simply hold onto them for the time being, William carefully crept across the open space of the foyer to the staircase. He had never moved as slow in his entire life as he had climbing up the stairs, too afraid of being caught red-handed. Already, he could see the downward spiral; Margaret would have caught him, he would have lost his wages and been destitute once again, hopping from bar to bar and wondering if things could have been different if he had simply had more self control.

Finally, he made it to the top of the stairs, feeling his way through the dark until he found his door. He opened it quickly lest it creak, and placed the lamp back in its post as he settled into bed. As he lay on his side with Margaret’s keys fisted in his hand, an idea came to him most genius, and it could not be helped as he smiled cruelly into the darkness.

Perhaps he could use his situation to his advantage after all.


End file.
